I Don't Play Football
by BoatsAgainstTheCurrent
Summary: The story of the clash between a boy who loves to write and the father who wants him to live up to a legacy.


"Wonderful!"

"Fantastic!"

"Magnificent!"

"Outstanding!"

It went on like that for what seemed like years. Bursts of enthusiasm splattering every corner of the small classroom so that they bounced right off the walls and into the eardrums of each student. Wilkins had that effect. He was known for having an incredible ability to keep the entire school awake, even with a subject that equaled the definition of boring. Unfortunately for him the reputation he found so much pride in was being quickly destroyed by a boy in the back of the room.

"Extraordinary!"

A fist came slamming down on the student desk with such brute force it almost snapped the thing in half. Gordie Lachance leapt upwards in such a manner that one might have guessed he'd been bitten in the ass. His knee flung itself into the desk as he fell sideways and over onto the floor.

"Congratulations Lachance! You have successfully slept through the Battle of Bunker Hill. Please do enlighten me on this event."

Gordie sighed lightly as he stood up, rubbing his bruised knee, and sat carefully back down in his chair.

"The Battle of Bunker Hill took place on June 17th, 1775 during the American Revolutionary War. It was a result of the attack mounted on the colonials by the British after discovering colonial troops were occupying Bunker Hill and Breed's Hill. The British troops had originally been planning to occupy those hills surrounding Boston. Although the British were victorious in the end, their casualties were relatively high at 800 wounded and around 230 dead."

"Lachance, you sound like a textbook. I appreciate that you are aware of the topics covered in my class but, for God's sake, that does not give you a reason to sleep through my entire lesson."

"No problem, sir," Gordie spoke through a sly smirk.

"Thank you."

Wilkins nodded curtly and returned to the front of the classroom where he immediately resumed an enthusiastic discussion about the Civil War. Chris Chambers suppressed a smile from the seat next to Gordie's as he turned to face his best friend.

"Alright man, what were you up to all night that kept you from attentively listening to Mr. Wilkins' fascinating soliloquy on the horrors and beauties of war?"

Gordie looked at the ceiling as if to avoid the question.

"Gordo… were you working on that story again?"

"Um… maybe."

Chris tutted quietly, "Man, you're gonna kill yourself doing all that writing."

"Chambers!" Wilkins' booming voice came ricocheting off the back wall, "Shut your trap or I'll send you to the principal's office."

"Yes, sir."

Chris hung his head briefly before glimpsing at Gordie and shoving a small, torn sheet of paper at him.

The bell rang before he had a chance to read it and the classroom quickly filled with the sound of scuffling feet.

…

_Have you decided what you're gonna do about you-know-what?_

Gordie read the note silently as he made his way through the semi-crowded hallway. He looked up occasionally in hopes of spotting his purposefully striding best friend, but he had already disappeared into the chaos.

The answer was no. Gordie had not yet made up his mind about what to do about "you know what". His father had been pressuring him continuously to join the football team. "Writing is for girls with nothing better to do," he'd say. "Are you a girl? Why can't you just be like Denny? He had his head on straight."

Gordie couldn't stand hearing those words from his father; they made him feel sick to his stomach. He often contemplated running away, but was smart enough to understand that such desperate action wouldn't solve anything. So he sat in bed every night, tolerating the whispers of scorn his father fed to his mother.

"He should be out playing football with the other boys, Dorothy. I thought he'd grow out of this phase by now."

"But Eugene, he loves writing. Have you ever even taken the time to appreciate how happy he is when he's sitting at his desk with a pen and journal? Have you ever bothered to read one of his stories? He's _talented_."

No matter how hard his mother tried to defend her son, Eugene Lachance remained bitter as ever. He scoffed and averted his eyes every time Gordie came down the stairs with a book or journal in tow. At dinner, he never failed to mention that the junior high's football team was holding try-outs and was interested in seeing some new faces. Gordie even received an unwanted football for his birthday after clearly asking for a set of quills and ink.

Dorothy complained under her breath as Gordie rushed upstairs to hide under his sheets, "Eugene, you full well know your son doesn't like football. I cannot believe you would do such a thing, and without consulting me first. You said you would get him what he wanted."

"I'm not about to empty out my wallet for a completely useless gift, Dorothy."

Yeah, that was pretty much what Gordie had to deal with every day. A whining father and the constant whispering. As if that kept him from hearing their hurtful conversations.

…

Gordie sighed loudly as he tucked Chris' note into his back pocket and kicked the school doors open. The fresh breeze washed over him and helped him clear his mind of his dad's voice.

He continued the self-debate that had been occurring for weeks. The football try-out signs were staked into the ground around the entire building and stared Gordie straight in the face.

Under his breath, he finally decided that if trying out for the school football team would get his father to shut up for once and maybe ease some of the tension that swam in the small house, it was worth it.

He grabbed a billowing flyer from the air and held it firmly in his hand for a moment.

He nodded to himself.

"Why not?" He said aloud, "It's not like I'll make the team anyway. I can't catch a ball for my life."

Trying out was good enough. It would make his father happy and, once he saw how terrible his second son was at the game, he'd appreciate him for his true talent.

It seemed like a good plan.


End file.
